


White Feather

by prettybirdy979



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, World War I
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-01
Updated: 2014-05-01
Packaged: 2018-01-21 12:47:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1551011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prettybirdy979/pseuds/prettybirdy979
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The White Feather Campaign was a effective campaign using women to shame men into enlisting during World War One.</p><p>Sherlock's got enough feathers to fill a box. John knows this because he keeps every single feather.</p>
            </blockquote>





	White Feather

**Author's Note:**

> Just a short little ficlet based on a thought I had during class. The white feathers were a thing- Go [here](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/White_feather#World_War_I) for a quick summary.
> 
> I think this is set late 1917, that's about when some of the rationing referred to started. Not 100% sure though.

'Another one?'

Sherlock didn’t look up as John spoke but just kept walking towards the mantelpiece where he placed the white feather in the box of them already sitting there. John couldn’t see it from the angle he was currently sitting at but he knew the box was nearly full. Sherlock never threw a feather away.

‘Sherlock?’

The man in question turned and threw himself into his seat. ‘That question is too obvious to require an answer.’

John sighed. ‘Who was it this time?’

‘Same as always. Young woman, full of fierce pride in her nation, stopped me while I was coming here and presented me with _that_.’ Sherlock waved a hand at the box. ‘Like I’m not already ‘doing my part’.’

‘You’re not in uniform, for most that’s enough.’ John shrugged and tapped his cane on the floor. ‘If I didn’t have this, you know I would get them too.’

Sherlock’s eyes flashed with anger at the thought. ‘You’ve already done your part.’ His eyes flickered to John’s shoulder, to the wound that had nearly claimed his life. ‘I would rip apart any woman who tried to shame you.’

‘Metaphorically, I hope.’ John smirked as Sherlock muttered about actual ripping and methods of cutting humans. He stood and placed a kiss on Sherlock’s forehead as he passed him on the way to their bookshelf. ‘How long do I have you for? You didn’t say last night.’

‘A week.’ Sherlock sounded pleased. ‘Mycroft now owes me three favours after the disaster at the Somme, this is one of them.’

John paused. ‘Why would you spend one of your brother’s favours on me?’ He ignored the mention of the war, he didn’t want to think about the battle that had forced him out of doing his duty.

‘Oh John.’ Suddenly a pair of hands turned him and Sherlock pulled him into a rapid and heated kiss. ‘I would spend every favour I had on you, if I could.’

With a soft smile, John returned the kiss. ‘Do you want tea? I don’t have much sugar, they’ve started to ration it. For the war, you know.’

Sherlock made a face. ‘I know. I’ve been having my tea without it.’

‘The horror!’ John was as dramatic as he could be and he laughed when Sherlock frowned at him. With a final kiss to Sherlock’s jaw, he went to make them a cup of tea. He heard Sherlock move and a glance over his shoulder allowed him to see Sherlock had moved back to the mantelpiece and was examining his box of feathers. He picked one out and ran his fingers over it, considering it carefully.

John’s heart ached. He knew how much Sherlock had disliked the war when John had enlisted; and had listened to or read his passionate debates on the waste and stupidity even as he had gone to serve and Sherlock had been dragged into intelligence work. But then John had gotten shot and now Sherlock barely mentioned the war the few days they saw another.

He was sure Sherlock loathed the war now, the looks he gave soldiers on the streets were never kind even for a man whose default look was a glare. But those feathers… he always kept the feathers. A part of John wondered if Sherlock blamed himself for John’s injury; wondered if he thought that by being there he might have prevented it.

The water boiled and brought John out of his thoughts. He would give Sherlock the last of the sugar he decided as he made the drinks. It’s not like he couldn’t do without.

‘You give me the sugar and I’ll make you drink that tea!’ Sherlock suddenly called out. John grimaced at the idea of having even one sip of the rubbish Sherlock preferred his tea to taste like.

‘I’d like to see you try.’ John brought the tea over and Sherlock replaced his feather in the box and shut it.

‘Should burn that.’ John said, tapping it with his cane. ‘That’s all their opinion is worth. Like they know what bravery is.’

Sherlock just smiled.


End file.
